We Pick Ourselves Undone
by firestorm26cmktellstales
Summary: John receives a message from a drunk Sherlock one night. Through a series of conversations they form a friendship that tests the limits of their strength to bring the two together.


Mike: Shit. I don't know how I can handle sharing this world with such idiots, let alone the same room.

John: I know you were upset I left early, but that's a bit harsh, don't you think? They are your friends, after all.

Mike: Friends? Psh. Hardly. I thought you would know better than anyone, I don't have friends.

John: Then who were all those people at your flat tonight?

Mike: No one important.

John: Just what the hell happened after I left? Some sort of deep existential crisis? Did your cock of a flatmate start doing that thing he does to everyone?

Mike: What thing? He doesn't do anything. The only thing Mike does is go to work, come home and live a normal, mundane life. It's almost pitiful.

John: First, let me point out you're referring to yourself in third person, and that's a bit scary. Second, your life is not pitiful. Because if it is, then so is my life, and I refuse to believe this is the best it's going to get.

Mike: Referring to myself in third person? For starters, last time I checked, I am not Mike. And secondly, I never said my life was pitiful, I was referring to Mike's.

John: What do you mean you're not Mike? It says right here that you are Mike.

Mike: Shit.

John: So, then if you're not Mike- Shit, am I talking to Sherlock?

Mike: Well, I suppose you are. And who might you be?

John: John Watson

Mike: John Watson. Mike has never mentioned you before.

John: Or he has and you've just never bothered to listen to him. Plus you've met me. You spoke to me tonight, or rather, you screamed at me.

Mike: Oh. So you were the kid who knocked me over? Watch yourself next time, alright?

John: Would that have been so hard for you to say in the first place; instead of calling me a moron and then continuing to insult my intelligence for ten minutes? It's not my fault that you have a low center of gravity. And don't hold your liquor very well. And did I look like a bloody kid to you? Pretentious Jerk.

Mike: Don't hold my liquor very well? I hold it a hell of a lot better than you would. You didn't even have one drink. And why? Because you were scared? Because you don't like the idea of not being in control of yourself? Tell me, John- does the idea of being intoxicated frighten you? Because I'm sure I know the answer.

John: Oh, you want to do that thing, don't you? Go on, Sherlock; do the thing for me. Tell me everything you know about why I didn't drink tonight. I'm dying to know.

Mike: Well, if you insist. You see, it's the way you hold yourself- your posture is slumped, so you're a timid and shy person at the best of times. When you walked away, you went and stood in the corner of the room- that's generally what people do when being anti-social. The way you watched the drunken crowd and the despise you held in your eyes told me a thousand stories. Now, what I want to know is what has made you hate alcohol so much? Obviously something bad has happened in your life- alcohol being the main cause of the problem.

John: Why do you think any of that is your business? You don't know me, you certainly don't like me, and I don't believe I have any reason to tell you the private parts of my past.

Mike: If you don't tell me, I'm going to find out one way or another. And just for the record, that's not a threat, it's a fact.

John: Be that as it may, I still don't understand why you want to know.

Mike: Because the complications in peoples lives fascinate me. And if people have a history as dark as yours, I could almost say that I thrive on it.

John: I'm not here for your entertainment, Sherlock. Goodnight.

_~John has left this conversation.~_

* * *

><p><span><strong>Sherlock:<strong>

Sherlock slammed the laptop shut as he dropped his head into the palm of his hands. He looked behind himself, staring at his bed as if it was a new heaven. As he dragged his feet along the surface of the floor, he slowly stripped himself of all his clothing, all but his underwear.

Sherlock crawled into bed where he stared blankly at the ceiling above. Sherlock wasn't tired, he was far from tired, but that simple feeling of being wrapped up inside a warm cocoon made him feel elated as he continued to stare into nothing but darkness.

**John:**

John closed his laptop, and tossed it aside onto his bed. Sherlock Holmes was infuriating; always has been since John first met him. He had no idea how Mike puts up with him, but he supposes that it's partially his own fault. If John had moved in with Mike when he asked, then Mike wouldn't have had to put up an advertisement on the board at Bart's looking for a flatmate, and Sherlock wouldn't have emerged from the lab he kept himself locked up in to answer the ad. But John had told his sister he would stay at her flat while she was away, and when she came back, well, John just didn't feel right leaving her on her own.

'Who does Sherlock think he is anyway?' John thought to himself as he flipped his pillow over, and kneaded his fists into it before laying back down.'He knows everything, and what he doesn't know he insists that he should.'

Why should Sherlock care about John's past, or about John at all? They aren't friends, and as Sherlock said himself, he has no friends, and even if he did, John certainly wouldn't be waiting in line to be one of them.

John sighed as he pulled the covers up over his chin. He closed his eyes, hoping to get back to the sleep he was enjoying before Sherlock had messaged him.

**Sherlock:**

Sherlock couldn't sleep. He couldn't stop thinking about John Watson and his history. He had never wanted find out something so badly. Just the concept of someone so innocent hiding such a dark memory filled Sherlock's mind with theories of what the situation could be- but none of them he could be sure of, not until he gained the facts for himself.

As Sherlock climbed out of bed he kicked his puddle of clothes to the side as he staggered over to Mike's laptop again. As he opened up the web browser he typed in John Watson's name. His eyes scanned the various results, trying to find anything relevant to who he was searching.

And then, he found it- John Watson's blog.

As Sherlock read through the information on his blog, he could finally deduce who this man was as a whole. An Army Doctor in training- it's obvious that's what he is studying. But as Sherlock continued to read on, that wasn't the most fascinating thing. John Watson sees a therapist, almost weekly.

Sherlock rested his arms behind his head as he sat back into his chair. He continued reading until he got interrupted by the sound of a knock on his door. The door slowly opened, revealing Mike on the other-side.

"So, did you enjoy the party?" he questioned with a chuckle, not acknowledging the fact that Sherlock was in fact using his laptop and not his own.

Sherlock hastily shut the computer as he turned his chair around. "You want me to be honest? It was shit."

Mike shook his head, laughing in amusement. He left the room, leaving Sherlock alone to get back to his business.

**John:**

Morning came too quickly for John. He had lectures from nine until two in the afternoon. Then he had a small break where he would grab a sandwich, and a cup of the subpar tea in the cafeteria before having to head to Bart's for training rounds until eight. It was a busy day, like all the rest of his days, but at least it would give him the chance to forget about the craziness of the night before.

He was still a bit irked from his late night conversation with Sherlock; that overblown, posh git.

John shook any residual thoughts of Sherlock from his mind, and went about his day. He took more notes than strictly necessary during his lectures, and picked a salmon sandwich with lemon herbal tea for lunch. He ate them on the bus on his way to Bart's.

John only had three months more practicum at Bart's before the Army would let him finish his training, and therefore his degree, in the field. He was looking forward to getting the hell out of London. Away from his sister and her drinking, away from his parent's thinking it was all their fault. A lot of people thought John was crazy for using a war to get away from his problems; all he really had to do was emigrate and start over, but that just didn't feel like enough, like it would keep his demons from following him.

By seven thirty, John had sutured more simple wounds that he could count, and stuck more IV's than he ever had down in the lab practicing. He managed a few cups of coffee, and a chocolate bar from Mary, the nurse he was constantly flirting with, despite her only ever smiling back at him, and rolling her eyes a little bit before walking away.

He decided, when he left for the night, that he was going to get some Chinese, and eat it in front of the tv before taking a shower, and slipping right into bed.

* * *

><p>Sherlock: So, you're an Army Doctor in training? Interesting career path to take.<p>

John: You have got to be kidding me. Added yourself to my friend's list, then? Yes, okay; you've gotten something right about me. I've completed my basic training, and they're paying to have me finish my studies here before I'm shipped far away from here. I've confirmed just how clever you are. Could you leave me alone now?

Sherlock: Not a chance. I'm only just getting started. I know for a fact, that you see a therapist almost weekly. Surely alcohol couldn't have affected your life that badly?

John: What the fuck is wrong with you? How do you know all of this? Look, if you are as desperate as conversation with me as you seem to be, we can talk. But not about that. Okay?

Sherlock: Fine. Well, what do normal people talk about? What do you want to talk about?

John: Anything that isn't personal about the other person- about each other's day; the things that they like. Or perhaps I could flip the tables on you; tell you why you're such a grouchy arse.

Sherlock: Boring. Come on. Think of something good, John. I already know I'm an arse. I don't need clarification.

John: I didn't say I would tell you that you're an arse. I said I would tell you why. Probably not hugged enough as a child; or maybe you were hugged too much.

Sherlock: I could say the same thing about you. A person who writes a blog who obviously has no serious family connections. I mean, you can deny that all you like- but it's true. When you're not studying or training, your writing your blog. There's no time for family. And, well, a person who is going off to war certainly needs to disconnect themselves from society.

John: Alright, great. You have me all figured out. New topic.

Sherlock: You're just no fun at all, are you?

John: I'm plenty fun.

Sherlock: Well, entertain me then.

John: You messaged me. How am I meant to entertain you?

John: Fine. You know what I do, so tell me what you do. I can't entertain you if I don't know you.

Sherlock: Chemistry is my field of interest, but just because it's in my interest doesn't mean it's the career path I'll choose to take. It's simply an attribute to my "passion" should I say.

John: I would have never figured you to have a passion for anything. Do you have a girlfriend?

Sherlock: Relationships are not exactly my field. It involves emotion. Something far more complicated than Chemistry I'm afraid.

John: I might actually have to agree with you on that. Though I was never very good at chemistry, myself. Nearly blew my eyebrows off once.

Sherlock: Chemistry is simple. But, love is not. And I am afraid I cannot help you with that aspect if that's what you're trying to ask me…

John: No, no. That's not what I'm after at all. Im not gay. I was just interested to know is all.

Sherlock: John. Don't ask me stupid questions. If there was no purpose behind your inquiry, don't waste time in asking it.

John: I was just trying to get to know you. Something I should have known was a mistake.

Sherlock: Well, stop trying. If you haven't figured it out yet, you're not going too.

John: Not everyone is like you. I can't look at you and know everything, and I'm not going to research you to know you. I'd like to have a real conversation like real people.

Sherlock: And I have given you multiple opportunities to ask me what you like. Try again. This time, use your brain, John. Ask me something smart.

John: Why do you like chemistry?

Sherlock: Because it makes sense. It's logical.

John: I can understand that. Bit why I chose medicine. There's always a solution. Even if its just putting a plaster over the wound. The Army too- for every crisis, there's a protocol. Makes me feel comfortable.

Sherlock: It makes you feel purpose, doesn't it?

John: I suppose it does, yes.

Sherlock: You like helping people. But it's not a passion, is it? It's guilt.

John: I'm trying to make up for a lifetime of other peoples mistakes. And a few of my own as well.

Sherlock: You can't fix everyone, John. You can't even fix yourself. How do you expect to fix those around you, when you're the one who is broken?

John: aren't you broken as well? Aren't all the observations you make, the flaws you point out in other people just a way to deflect your own flaws? You act as though you're superior to everyone else because you're terrified of being the same as us.

Sherlock: Hm. That's an interesting observation. I suppose you are smarter than you make out to be, and that's a compliment. But of course, you did miss all the important information.

John: Then what is the important information? Please tell me, because this game of yours is getting tired.

Sherlock: If you're going to make a deduction, you could at least think about it first.

John: I deduce you're a bastard. No thinking necessary on that one.

John: Look, if there is something you'd like to tell me, then do. Otherwise, I've had a very long day, and would like to relax.

Sherlock: Be on your way then. You have got plenty of thinking to do. I wouldn't want those nightmares keeping you awake at night.

John: You are a miserable bastard, Sherlock Holmes. Goodnight.

Sherlock: Goodnight, John Watson.

_~Sherlock has left this conversation.~_

* * *

><p><span><strong>Sherlock:<strong>

The drawer in the wooden desk contained Sherlock's cigarettes and lighter. As he planted one of toxic sticks between his lips he inhaled a deep breath, feeling its toxic chemicals flow freely throughout his body.

"John Watson. You are interesting, aren't you?" Sherlock said to himself.

He stared at the open blog on his laptop, waiting. Waiting for an update, for anything.

As Sherlock scrolled through his previous blog updates, he examined John's every word. The way he set out his text, the way he timed and dated everything- every little detail was crucial to finding out more about who John was as a person.

Sherlock still had John's chat box open. He was offline, but he was still there.

* * *

><p>John: Look, I get it. You're the smartest kid in the room; always have been. And the kids hated you for it, so you hated them back. By the time you grew up it didn't matter anyway. But people don't hate you because they're afraid of you or intimidated even, they just don't understand you. And how could they? You never give anyone a chance. You're lonely, and you're angry, and you don't have to be.<p>

Sherlock stared at the message for a moment before slowly backing away from his computer. For the first time in a long time he was finally faced with an emotion known as confusion.


End file.
